Into that Good Night
by Sophia Hawkins
Summary: Oneshot. For a change, Hannibal's the one who has to return Murdock to the V.A. at the end of a mission. Set in 1979.


Into that Good Night

"Come on, Murdock, just a little further now."

Hannibal quietly jimmied the window open to Murdock's room at the V.A.'s psychiatric ward and waited for the pilot to catch up with him. Murdock was more or less dead on his feet from exhaustion and Hannibal would swear the captain was walking with his eyes shut up to the outside wall. It had been a hard mission and a hard last three days on everybody, and everybody was tired and sore and just wanted to go home and go to bed. Murdock had already been out of the V.A. for almost a week and it was decidedly unanimously (only among the three of them), that it was time to get Murdock back to his room, so in the morning he would wake up fresh and could claim insanity once again, deny that he'd ever left his room.

Murdock reached the window but only got his hands on the sill before he slumped over and about collapsed. Hannibal had to grab him and help the pilot step in over the window's threshold.

"Come on, Murdock," he said quietly so none of the staff would hear them.

Hannibal stepped over the window and put an arm around Murdock's back and walked him over to his bed by the corner of the room. One step, two steps, three steps, and the pilot slipped out of Hannibal's grip and crash landed on his bed on all fours. Hannibal reached down and pulled off Murdock's baseball cap and then slowly wriggled the pilot out of his leather jacket. Even in the dark, Hannibal could see the bandage tied around Murdock's arm just under his shoulder; a stray bullet during a firefight had just grazed his bicep, the real injury had been him nearly dislocating his shoulder to get out of his restraints when they'd been caught. _That_ was still causing so much pain they'd had to get Murdock to comply with swallowing a few pills so he'd sleep through the night, and that was also why he was so lethargic now.

Six years, that was how long they'd been doing this now. Almost seven actually, but some days it seemed a lifetime longer than that. Seven years of running from the MPs whenever they came sniffing around, and going on dangerous missions to help good people, many of whom couldn't even afford to pay their fees, _and_ of this. Of breaking Murdock _out_ of the V.A. on a regular basis and breaking him back _in_ on a less than regular basis, of getting him out for a week, two weeks, then sending him back here, and then the process would repeat.

Murdock was a good sport, Hannibal absently patted the top of the pilot's head like he was a sleeping dog. He knew that Murdock wasn't happy here, only did it because he had to, self preservation and a way of keeping his link to the rest of them concealed from the rest of the world. Who would ever look for a getaway pilot hiding in a crazy hospital? Over the years he'd learned how to psyche out the doctors and the nurses, make them think he took his thrice-daily medication, attended all his therapy sessions with his doctors, told them whatever they did or didn't want to hear, all that jazz. Speaking of which, Hannibal reached in his jacket pocket and took out a prescription pill bottle, chock full of vitamin tablets; Murdock could switch them out, palm these in place of his daily medication, fool everybody and come out of it healthy as a horse.

Hannibal looked around the dark room, dark, sterile, cold, and impersonal. Even after all these years, still _very_ impersonal. That miserable excuse army cot with a pancake flat mattress on it they called a bed with a metal frame, a dresser for his clothes, a small couch, a phone, a TV, a lamp, a sink, a mirror, a changing screen, that was about it. They'd tried to get Murdock some things over the years to accommodate him, give the room a more personal feel to it, make it a little more like home for him. He took Murdock's jacket and cap and went to hang them up on the wall, as he put the jacket up, he felt through the pockets to make sure nothing had been forgotten. He pulled out a folded piece of paper, and unfolded it to try and read by moonlight.

This was Murdock's idea of a crib sheet, every so often he would scribble things down and stuff it in his pocket and keep it to himself to use later on, B.A. and Face never saw him do it so they didn't have any idea. Hannibal strained his eyes to read what was on the note, written haphazardly sometime before they'd gotten back.

_plaid sports coat named 'Willy'_

_Superhero alter ego, Captain __

_Movie director_

_Ammonia_

Ammonia? Hannibal shook his head and refolded the note, but he didn't put it back in Murdock's jacket. Instead he looked around the room, ah. Murdock was considered by everyone who got to know him as something of an enigma, a man of mystery because nobody could figure him out, _any_ part of him out. Even the staff here thought he was faking since his diagnoses changed from week to week, but they had no way of proving it, well, that's because they never saw his notes. To anybody they encountered, hospital staff, army officials, clients, strangers, he could be anything in a moment's notice, he could be serious about something ridiculous, he could be a regular good ol' boy just looking for a beer and a pretty woman, and sometimes…sometimes he could be a child. It was an act he did very well, he'd had a lot of practice over the years, of course he had some help. Hannibal found what he was looking for and picked a teddy bear up off of the floor.

Murdock hadn't been exactly thrilled when Hannibal gave this to him, until he saw _why_ Hannibal had picked it up for him. In a former life this was some kind of talking teddy bear, apparently the eyes and mouth were supposed to move and he was supposed to carry on conversations with children…the whole aspect disturbed Hannibal greatly. So he opened up the bear's Velcro back, found the battery pack for the voice box, and cut it out. No more teatime chats with Teddy, now he had a conveniently hollow back that could be used for storage, and Murdock knew it. Hannibal stuffed Murdock's note in there and sealed the bear back up. In the morning, Murdock would know where to look.

"_Presentation is very important, Murdock,"_ he'd told the pilot at the time, _"Who would ever suspect danger, or deceit, from something as harmless as a toy?"_

"_Anybody who was alive for Talky Tina's premiere on the Twilight Zone,"_ had been Murdock's ornery response.

Contrary to B.A.'s constant insults to the pilot, Murdock was no fool, he knew the game very well and he knew how to play; he could be anything he needed to be, anything he wanted to be, anything _they_ needed him to be. You say be insane and he was insane, it was of no purpose to actively _say_ to him be a chicken, be a dog, that came with the territory of insanity. You say be cunning, and he was cunning, you say be a child, and he was a child. so many times he could be a child; it worked wonders for luring the bad guys in under a false pretense of helplessness and vulnerability on Murdock's part, a seemingly easy target, and then BAM!

Of course…it wasn't always an act. In real life, Murdock was very much like a child, but to understand that, you had to know him as Hannibal did, and actually be able to dig under all those layers of quirks and personas and characters. True, some of Murdock's petty antics with Face were very much like what you'd expect from a couple of squabbling children, but he wasn't thinking about that. Underneath it all, Murdock was as bright eyed and hopeful as a child, he always held the impending future in optimistic views, he hadn't let himself be hardened by anything that had happened to him, not this, not the war, not anything from before the war, none of it seemed to have a lasting hold on his pilot. Every day was still perceived as a chance for something exciting to happen, and it often did, despite these lulls in between his jail breaks. Hannibal sighed to himself as he sat on the floor, he just wished they could do something for Murdock to liven up the time he had to spend here at the hospital.

Speaking of which…Hannibal reached in his jacket and pulled out a flat brown paper bag; he usually had Face do the honors of returning Murdock to the hospital, but those blue moon occasions he did the job himself, he liked to leave a little something to help the pilot pass the time. While out he'd picked up for Murdock two aviation magazines, a superhero comic book, a copy of The Blue Max that he figured the captain would get a kick out of, and three packs of gum that varied in flavor from blackjack to mixed fruit to something nobody else he knew would even touch based alone on the scent that came right through the wrapper. He slid the paper sack under the bed, and brushed his hand against something…something hard…and plastic. Hannibal turned over on his knees and stuck his arm as far under the bed as he could reach and pulled several such things out. Over the years he was gradually becoming an expert at reading and identifying things in the dark, with a little eye strain he was able to figure out that these were the electronic games they'd gotten for Murdock over the past couple years: Auto Race, football, baseball, Armor Battle, Missile Attack, and a Microvision game that by now had lost its game cartridges. And truth be told, Murdock probably put the rest of these games on their last legs months ago.

But he never complained, that was something he was good about, always finding ways to keep himself entertained. Hannibal remembered after the first one had burnt out or blown up or whatever happened after Murdock had played it for probably the 10th thousand time, they didn't know until a month afterward and found out Murdock had been occupying his time since with paper airplanes, enough paper airplanes for Herman Melville to come back from the dead and write Moby Dick on all over again. He'd gone from simple paper airplanes to constructing paper 3D model airplanes, to then putting them all together until he had one the size of a newspaper and declared it a bomber plane, and to prove his point, somehow got his hands on some tennis balls and would bombard the orderlies with them any time they set foot in his room. In fact it had almost been a shame when those antics ended because Face presented Murdock with a second copy of Auto Race, but Hannibal could appreciate that _this_ was easier on the hospital staff.

Murdock was already dead to the world as far as Hannibal could tell, he had his arms folded under him, his head turned to one side and his mouth half hanging open, and looked like a dog sleeping on the floor. Hannibal got up on his knees and grabbed one of the pilot's feet and slowly untied his worn out black sneakers and pulled them off one by one, then his socks, which had also seen better days and by now either needed a good washing or a blowtorch. There, let his feet breathe for a few hours, they, like the rest of him, had been on the dead run for the last week, and this was probably the first time his feet got any air to them, and Hannibal well knew that your feet were 9/10ths of the law of comfort when you slept, if they were cold you were cold, if they were hot you were hot, if they were stifled, you wouldn't sleep easily either.

Hannibal pulled the top half of his body up onto the bed alongside Murdock, who was oblivious to the added weight on the mattress, causing it to shift. Hannibal laid his head on the pillows and pressed his head against Murdock's as he held onto the pilot for a moment. He hated this. He hated having to leave Murdock here, always having to bring him back after every mission, leaving him on his own again. They _all_ deserved better, but Murdock especially, this was a miserable excuse of an existence for the sake of being 'safe' from the military and the government, and even Hannibal could admit that, but it was still in everybody's best interest, no matter how much they all hated it. Had Murdock been awake, Hannibal would've promised him, somehow, somewhere, he was going to find a way to get all their names cleared, full pardons, so all of them could live as free men again, and when that happened he would find a way to get Murdock out of here, he promised, he wasn't sure how, but he promised he'd find a way.

Finally, and hesitantly, Hannibal pulled himself away from his captain and got ready to leave. He leaned over Murdock and whispered in the sleeping man's ear, "Take care of yourself, son, we'll be back soon," and kissed the younger man on the top of his head before walking away and back to the window.

On the count of three, Hannibal shoved the window open, stepped out, and closed it again.

"About time, Hannibal," Face said, "You know how long B.A.'s had to keep the power off? It's a miracle nobody's come to check the breaker."

"Nobody pays attention at this time of night," Hannibal insisted, "Everybody's hiding in the linen closets sleeping, just like in nursing homes."

"Very funny, Hannibal," B.A. said as he pushed the gated screen back in front of Murdock's window, "Let's get out of here."

They took off running before anybody could notice what was going on and sound an alarm, they reached the van, got in and took off before anybody spotted them.

* * *

"You think Murdock will be better tomorrow?" Face asked.

"I don't think anybody will put it together how he got hurt if _that's_ what you're asking," Hannibal told him. He knew Murdock would still be sore in the morning, but he was sure after a full night's medicated sleep, the pilot would at least be more coherent than he had been the last couple hours tonight…maybe.

They drove along for a while and Hannibal only half paid attention to B.A. and Face talking back and forth about this and that. Right now his main focus was on what he had in his jacket pocket. When he heard a pause in the conversation, he spoke up and addressed the man sitting in the back seat as he pulled a folded piece of paper out and handed it to the Lieutenant, "Face, tomorrow I want you to figure out a scam so we can get this delivered to Murdock's hospital room."

"What is it, Hannibal?" B.A. asked.

Face took the paper from Hannibal and unfolded it as Hannibal said for explanation, "It's a surprise for Murdock."

Face held the paper up to the light and saw it was a black and white printout ad for an Asteroids console.

"A video game?" Face asked.

Hannibal took a cigar out of his pocket and lit it as he explained, "I found a guy who's selling one used, he says he'll let us have it for $2,000."

"That a good price for it?" B.A. asked suspiciously.

"I have no idea, but we just got paid 20 grand for our last job, we can afford it, and besides," Hannibal added, "Murdock's worth it."

"Agreed," Face nodded.

"Man you as crazy as Murdock, Hannibal," B.A. said.

"Thank you, I try," he replied with a gleam in his eyes and a smirk on his face.

"Whoever heard of letting a crazy patient have arcade games in his room?" B.A. asked.

"Nobody I know of," Hannibal answered as he let out a puff of smoke, "It's genius, he'll be the first. And he'll have something new, not some antique like that Computer Space game that came out about 10 years ago."

"Well, it's an idea," Face said, "It'll keep him occupied for a while, and it'll have to last longer than those handheld games we got him."

"And if we can do it once, we can do it again," Hannibal said.

"Say what?" B.A. asked as he turned his head ever so slowly to glare at Hannibal.

Hannibal pretended to ignore the look he was getting from his sergeant and instead addressed Face's reflection in the rear view mirror, "He's been in the V.A. for near 7 years now, that room still looks like it's his first day in, a couple arcade games will give it a more personal touch for him, and you know he'll get a kick out of it."

"Murdock can get a kick out of _anything,_ Hannibal, you know that," Face replied.

"I know it, but he'll especially get a kick out of _this_," Hannibal told him.

"That's Hannibal," B.A. said as he stared at the dark road ahead, "Always _thinking_."

"That's why he's the leader," Face responded.

Hannibal grinned at his reflection in the mirror and replied, "And don't you forget it."


End file.
